


Tugtog

by ang_gray_smol



Category: Noli Me Tangere & Related Works - José Rizal
Genre: Alternate Universe - Coffee Shops & Cafés, Alternate Universe - College/University, Alternate Universe - Shigatsu wa Kimi no Uso | Your Lie in April Fusion, Angst and Tragedy, Classical Music, Fluff and Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Orpheus and Eurydice Myth, Philippine Mythology - Freeform, Terminal Illnesses
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-12-31
Updated: 2017-12-31
Packaged: 2019-02-24 15:20:01
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,136
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13216545
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ang_gray_smol/pseuds/ang_gray_smol
Summary: tug•tog ::: (n.) onomatopoeia for the beating of the heartwritten for the El Nolibusterismo Secret Santa exchange on Twitter, for @readinghoe





	Tugtog

**Author's Note:**

> HAPPY NEW YEAR PEOPLE AAAAA
> 
> [tumblr link up](http://almightytrashcan.tumblr.com/post/169149779708/el-nolibusterismo-secret-santa-2017)
> 
> [listen as you read!](https://soundcloud.com/bulletdumas/tugtog)

**_0%_ **

Juanito was certain that his fingertips were a mess—sore, bleeding, and fleshed out from pressing down on steel strings for far too long, the usual deal. He spent a great amount of time practicing along with the pre-recorded piano accompaniment for Beethoven’s ‘Kreutzer’, until his teacher came in and decided that enough was enough for today.

“Your playing was the same today too,” Juanito’s mentor noted. “You’re really not fond of sticking to the sheets, aren’t you?”

He shrugged. Nope, definitely not. That’s not how music works.

(Music isn’t something that should be made according to conventions. It should be made from emotions, from the heart. It’s something that you feel, and put into sound...is what Juanito would say most of the time. His teacher heard this speech so many times already that he’s memorized it already forwards and backwards.)

Juanito looked at his fingers. Yep. Sore, slightly bleeding, and almost fleshed out. He didn’t really mind though. It was the mark of being a violinist, he’d say often.

It’s something to be proud of.

But for now, his violin classes were over and he wanted to go back to his dorm. He knew his bed was waiting for him, as well as a pack of Pancit Canton Chilimansi in the storage cupboard above the sink. He hastened to get home immediately, so he waved goodbye to his mentor, and left the building where he took his violin lessons since the beginning—a newly-painted, three-story block of white with large display windows and tarpaulins hanging from the inside showing the various courses they offer: piano, violin, guitar, drums, voice.

Juanito hummed cheerily, his grey headphones perched around his neck, his backpack hung clumsily over one shoulder, his violin case thumping against his thigh as he walked. He was nearing the street vendor who sold kwek-kwek and fishball, as well as some other university students gathered around her, eager for merienda.

Wait. It’s just five in the afternoon. Pancit Canton would be too heavy a snack. He should make some dinner instead. Or buy some dinner. Maybe later. Thank God it’s a Saturday, and the fact that he didn’t have Saturday classes in the afternoon.

Juanito continued walking until he caught sight of a café in one of the leisure complexes. There weren’t a lot of customers in, he noted. Maybe a good place to have a snack.

Pancit Canton can wait…until he _actually_ deserved it, probably. Sigh. Maybe after his recital. Yeah. That sounds good.

As he opened the door to the café, a small bell jingled, signaling a new customer’s arrival. The scent of coffee and chocolate pervaded his senses. Juanito’s eyes swiveled immediately to the cakes and breads on display. Hmm…a bagel would be good. A cappuccino too.

He walked up to the counter, where a young man around his age was manning cash register. His nametag read “Placido”. He had shoulder-length tied into a low ponytail, and donned a brown apron with the logo of the café printed on the front. His eyes were rather slanted and serious—he was definitely focused on his work. When Juanito came up in front of the counter, Placido looked up, and smiled.

 _Oh no_ , Juanito thought.

 _He’s cute_.

“What can I help you with?” Placido’s voice wasn’t bubbly or sweet. It was brisk and straight to the point. It’s like he was tired and he wanted to go home or something. It was definitely masked by his charming smile and his forced cheerfulness though.

(It’s also rather impressive that Juanito could hear that. He’s a musician, of course he can hear things other people don’t usually take note of.)

“Well, can I have a small cappuccino and a bagel?” Juanito watched as Placido inputted his order into the cash register. Two hundred and fifty pesos. Not bad, Juanito mused.

“Name, sir?”

“Juanito would be fine.”

“That would be two hundred and fifty pesos, sir—”

“I know.” Juanito waved a flippant hand. Placido raised an eyebrow. “The digits aren’t really important.” Placido raised his other eyebrow. Ah, he got it. He got the big-shot image through.

Juanito handed in his money, a crisp five hundred bill. Placido inputted it, and continued with the rest of the routine.

“Maybe…” Juanito began. Placido shot his head back up too quickly he could’ve gotten whiplash. “I can get your number instead?” Juanito flashed his winning smile, the kind that would usually get girls to swoon over him (well the thing is that barely any girls _actually_ get fawned over Juanito’s looks so…), but Placido remained unamused.

“How many times have you done this before?” Placido asked.

“Only now, of course! You’re special, you know.”

“Right. Okay. Can you get out of the line now? There are customers behind you.”

Juanito stepped aside, not without sending Placido a wink.

Placido rolled his eyes, and dutifully continued his work behind the cash register

Juanito settled at a table by the corner of the store. He set his violin case down on the floor, and pulled out his clear book of sheet music from his backpack, and set it down on the table. He flipped it open, and analyzed the pieces he needed to practice before the next time he arrives for lessons.

The café was rather quiet, since there were only a few customers dining at the moment. Most of them passed by to have take-out drinks, seemingly in a hurry to get to somewhere. Even then, there was the telltale clink of spoons and porcelain mugs. It’s comforting, somehow, compared to the hustle of chatter and traffic outside the university.

“One cappuccino and a bagel for Juanito.” Placido called. Juanito jumped up from his seat, and hurried over to the pick-up counter. There was a tray with a porcelain mug and a plate with a steaming hot bagel waiting for him.

“Let me check the receipt.” Placido was there behind the pick-up counter too, playing with a ballpoint pen in his hands. “I’ll double check the order.”

“Aww, thanks, sweetie.” Juanito winked at Placido again.

A crack appeared in Placido’s calm, professional façade. He scowled at Juanito, before checking the items on the receipt. He scribbled down something long, before slapping the paper down on the tray, and sending Juanito away.

 _Cute_ , Juanito thought as he walked back to his seat. He set the tray down, and took a sip of his cappuccino. Hmm…needs some sugar.

He took a peek at his receipt, and his eyes widened.

The bottom of the receipt was folded, with a set of numbers written on it, a tiny note beneath it as well.

_I can’t believe I’m doing this. Call me whenever, I guess._

Juanito glanced quickly at Placido working behind the cash register. He had his calm, professional façade on again, but when he met Juanito’s eyes, his cool smile dropped for a fraction of a second.

A score. A definite score.

**_10%_ **

“I can’t believe you go to the same university,” Juanito said cheerily. They were having lunch at Jollibee, though honestly, lunch was a bit of an understatement. It was close to three in the afternoon, the only time in which Juanito had a long break before resuming his evening classes, and in which Placido gets off work and prepares for classes. They got to plan this meet-up a week after Placido gave Juanito his number, and the latter started calling and texting incessantly, flirting shamelessly while Placido’s busy with his morning shift for the next seven days.

“Begrudgingly,” Placido muttered under his breath, dipping a piece of his Chickenjoy in a generous amount of gravy.

“Anyway, what course are you taking up?” Juanito was, for lack of a better euphemism, staring right at Placido, his elbows on the table, and his hands supporting his cheeks. He was smiling and his eyes were somehow sparkling. Like some shoujo manga scene.

“L-Legal management,” Placido said, evidently disturbed. “Y-You?”

“Accountancy!” Juanito replied cheerfully. “Doesn’t really sound like me, right?”

“I don’t really care.”

“My dad told me to get a business related course but honestly? I didn’t want to. But well he knows how to emotionally blackmail as well so here I am, taking up Accountancy. The saints must love me though, since I haven’t failed yet.”

“‘Yet’,” Placido mirrored. “What did you want to take anyway?”

“Something music related. There was a college that I was eyeing, because it had the course that I wanted. But like I said, my dad knows how to emotionally blackmail me, so that’s that.”

“That sounds like something to be very concerned of.”

“Is it bad to say I’m used to it?”

“Hmm…”

“Anyway, you said you wanted to take a music course, right? Do you play an instrument?”

“Yup! I play the violin,” Juanito announced proudly. Placido realized only now that their plates were empty. They should probably clean up before they leave. Placido started putting the trash on the plates, and wiping the table with the extra tissue. Juanito seemed to notice what Placido was doing, but made no attempt to help. Placido groaned, only internally though.

“How long have you been playing?”

“Well, I’m nineteen, and I started when I was six, so I’ve been playing for about thirteen years now.”

“Have you ever gotten tired of the violin?”

“Never!”

“Lies. You have. Once.” Placido stood up from his seat once the table was fixed. Juanito followed shortly. Does his energy ever end?

“Okay fine, there was _one_ time, but that’s it!”

“Sure, sure…”

As they reached the door, Placido suddenly turned. “When was the last time you ate?”

“Umm…I had a snack at twelve, so I can have lunch with you!”

“Jesus.”

**_20%_ **

“Can I watch you perform?” Placido’s question caught Juanito off guard.

“Why are you at school early? And how do you know where I usually stay after class?”

“I have my sources, and my schedule is more lenient on Thursdays. So, can I?”

“Sure, I guess. Just…don’t disturb me, okay?”

“Yeah.”

Juanito led Placido down a packed hallway with sparse people. Juanito looked left and right for a good room, until he settled on one near the end of the hall. It’s a…nice sight, even—Juanito with his violin case and music stand slung over his right shoulder and a clear book in his left hand. A small, wireless, handheld speaker was bulging in Juanito’s back pocket. The way Juanito walked was full of swagger, like he was trying to say, “Hello, yes, I’m a seasoned violinist, I know how to play these strings like a pro and look great while I’m at it. Behold me and wonder,” or something like that.

Yeah, he looks really…cool.

“The people outside might hear you playing.”

“I don’t mind. I’m just avoiding ghosts.”

Placido raised an eyebrow. “You scared?”

“Yeah.” Normally, no one would answer that question quickly and casually, but well, Juanito did. Placido internally applauded him for that.

The room was apparently an old classroom, but dusty from disuse. The chairs were pushed back to the walls, making a larger space in the middle. The blackboard, however, seemed to be in constant use. There were windows along one side of the room, shut rather tightly. There was a solitary ceiling fan too, caked in dust and cobwebs. There were musical notes and other stuff written on it. Those must be Juanito’s.

“You use this room often?” Placido asked, covering his nose from the dust.

“Yeah. Hold on, let me just set up.”

Placido calmly sat down on the floor, and watched the other assemble everything—violin, music stand, clear book, speaker…

“I have a competition coming up, so I need to practice for it.”

“Don’t you have a recital too?”

“Yeah but it’s still far away.”

Juanito connected his phone to the speaker. “What are you going to practice?” Placido asked, still not getting up from his position.

“Introduction and Rondo Capriccioso. Saint-Saëns. You know him?”

“Yeah, of course.” The answer came naturally, without Placido’s explicit awareness. Juanito gave him an odd look. Not a lot of people know Camille Saint-Saëns. He isn’t as popular as Bach or Tschaikovsky, or Mozart, or Beethoven even.

“Don’t you need piano accompaniment?” Placido asked.

“It’s okay, I’ve got it in my phone. Here, just hold on to it first, and the speaker too, please?”

“Sure sure.”

“Play it on my mark, okay?”

“Yeah.”

Juanito positioned his violin over his collarbone, and the bow over the strings.

“Go.”

The moment the piano accompaniment began, Juanito’s bow drew across the bowstrings fiercely, then gently, then fiercely all at once.

Placido was entranced. The accompaniment was soft and carefully done, but Juanito’s playing was reckless, the complete opposite. Placido could feel, no, _see_ Juanito’s emotions being laid bare across the room, dancing around in the multitudes of notes and progressions, running and jumping to the time. It was hypnotizing watching Juanito play with such passion, his body swaying with the melody, his eyes closed as though to feel the music entirely, occasionally glancing at the sheet music in front of him.

Slowly, Juanito melded into the music, let it course through his veins in a manic frenzy, but…

Placido gulped. Juanito’s playing was exceptional, but he was reinterpreting the piece in his own manner. He was joining a competition, right? Competition pieces require you to strictly adhere to the score, and it’s only during recitals where you can play in your own way.

Even then…

“Well?”

Placido blinked. He must’ve been too focused on Juanito’s playing that he didn’t notice the music ending.

“Woah…”

Juanito made a noise akin to a squeal.

“WAS IT THAT GOOD???”

“Er—yeah, definitely. But…”

“But?”

“…you’re performing at competition, right?”

“Yeah, why?”

“Nothing. It was pretty okay.” Placido looked away.

**_30%_ **

It became a kind of routine afterwards. They meet up outside the café Placido works in, just when Placido gets off of work. They head to the university grounds, where they stay in that one dusty classroom for the time being, Juanito practicing on the violin and Placidos spectating silently.

“Why’d you start working at a café?”

“Ah…” Placido’s eyes shifted to the old ceiling, water spots dotting the surface, often large, some tiny dots like scattered stars. “I like coffee.”

“That’s it?”

“Mhm…”

“Are you getting bored?” Juanito asked. He massaged his fingers—they got too sore from all his practicing.

“Not really.” Placido was staring at the trees beyond the windows, the branches swaying gently in the wind.

“Do you like my company?”

“Probably…”

“What was that?”

**_40%_ **

“Have you ever played an instrument before?” Juanito asked, zipping up his violin case. “You recognize almost all of the pieces I play.”

Juanito didn’t advance up the competition. Which was okay, kind of. Placido just heard from Juanito’s teacher that he isn’t really fond of winning; he just wants to play music for a crowd. Which was also okay, kind of.

(They got to meet because Juanito was being a baby and pleaded with Placido to ditch work for a while to accompany him to lessons. Placido only complied because he had enough slots left for absence and his boss was trying to convince him to take a break for a while.)

“Yeah, before. I played piano, but I stopped when I moved here to Manila.”

“Oh, so you have a piano back in your house in Batangas?”

“Yeah. It’s pretty old too. Belonged to my grandparents, I think.”

“I wanna hear you play!”

“No, please.”

“No, we’re going to the music room, and I’m gonna hear you play something.” Juanito suddenly grabbed Placido’s wrist, and, lugging all of his stuff in one hand, strode out the hallway.

“Dude, no, please, I’m out of practice already—”

“Then I’m gonna make you practice, so I can hear you play properly one day!” Placido sighed. Once Juanito was dead-set on something, he wouldn’t stop until he got to achieve that thing bugging him. It was a nice attitude in theory, but it was disastrous in practice, especially on Juanito.

They made their way through the dusty halls of the university’s main building, Placido being half-dragged by Juanito rather begrudgingly.

.

.

.

“So, what can you play?” Juanito asked excitedly, nearly jumping around Placido as he sat down behind the piano.

“Hmm…I guess I can do Introduction and Rondo Capriccioso.”

“You can?!”

“I’ll try.”

Placido positioned his fingers on the keys, preparing himself for the playing process. It’s like that moment where the cartoon character had an ellipsis over their head, blinking over and over, indicating that they’re thinking. Though, Juanito swore he could see the actual ellipsis over Placido’s head.

Then, Placido started playing.

Juanito has seen the ways people play piano. There are people who play with uncertainty, and it reflects in the music that they produce. There are those who play with overflowing confidence, evident in the way they press down on the keys.

Then there’s Placido Penitente.

His face was a blank slate, his eyes looking at the keys, but not entirely focusing on them. Playing seemed like second nature to him. Introduction and Rondo Capriccioso was admittedly a difficult piece, but Placido’s fingers glided over the keys with no problem. Juanito watched with keen attention.

Placido’s face may have been blank, but his playing told the opposite. Placido played meticulously, note per note, increasing or decreasing in emotion, like the sheet music was right in front of him.

Juanito frowned the slightest though. Placido’s playing was beautiful, but it was too restricted and controlled. There was barely any leeway for emotion—the complete opposite of what Juanito strives for every time. But the fact that Placido still remembered how to play after being away from home for so long…it was spectacular.

(Then again, Placio was only away from home for only a year and a half. Everything must still be fresh.)

.

.

.

“You’re…so cool.”

“Yeah? Thanks. I missed a lot of keys, though.”

“That doesn’t matter! You played so well! Be my accompanist!”

“What?! No!”

“Please!”

“What will I do to make you convinced that I won’t take your offer?”

“Go out with me?” Placido winced. Terrible proposal.

“Fine okay, I accept.”

“You’re really great.”

“Don’t make me regret this, you asshole.”

Placido couldn’t help himself from blushing the slightest.

**_50%_ **

Juanito often wondered how it would feel like to hold Placido’s hand.

He’s seen it in action in different occasions already. He watched them grind coffee beans, carefully concocting his regular cappuccino. He knows how easily they move over the keys from one to another, creating sound, melody, the companion to his strings. He observed those long, lithe fingers flip through textbooks, notebooks, play with ballpens, tap on surfaces.

Juanito wonders how warm they would be, and if they would be a perfect fit in his. He’s heard girls giggle over how their boyfriend’s or girlfriend’s hand felt right in their hands, like the universe conspired to make two palms fit into each other like puzzle pieces.

Juanito wonders how it would like to hold Placido’s hand. He also wonders _when_ he can hold Placido’s hand.

.

.

.

Placido’s hands finished with a flourish. Once again, it was all unnaturally perfect.

“You’re too stiff, like a metronome. The piece sounded great, only because you were playing by structure.” Juanito tapped Placido’s head with his bow.

“Why are you scolding me?”

“Because I think you need to reevaluate how you play.”

“Really?” It wasn’t inquiring or curious. It was scathingly sarcastic, but Juanito knows how painful Placido can bite.

“You can start by focusing less on the notes, and more on…”

More on what? What did Juanito focus on whenever he played? What was that one thing that made him rush with adrenaline?

“More on…how you imagine to play your piece.”

“Excuse me?”

“All of the pieces have feelings, you know,” Juanito said. “You can play them as carefully as ever, but they’d just remain as notes and nothing else. If you imagine how you play your piece, though, you find yourself writing a story, somehow. Your own story, with the music as your pen.”

“Wow, big words. Where’d you get them?”

“I thought of them myself, thank you very much.”

Placido didn’t retort. Instead he gazed thoughtfully at the notes printed on the sheets of paper in front of him, to the black and white keys of the piano.

“I…I honestly don’t know if I can do it.”

“Oho, what’s this? The great Placido Penitente is actually hard up in coming to terms with his rigid playing?”

“Shut up, you.”

“It’s okay though,” Juanito said, smiling. Gently, he reached to clasp Placido’s hand, still resting on the keyboard. Placido flinched, but settled quickly. “Let’s keep trying, all right?”

Placido nodded, pink starting to spread across his cheeks. There was still so much time before classes resumed for the both of them.

“Why are you blushing?” Juanito asked, apparently unaware that he was holding Placido’s hand. Immediately, Placido pulled his hand away, his face contorting into that of outrage.

.

.

.

It’s been weeks since the handholding incident, but Juanito is relentless.

“C-Can I hold your hand again?”

Placido jumbled up the keys, his face reaching a scalding temperature.

“What the fuck Pelaez?!”

“I would like to hold your hand again!”

“Y-You could’ve told me earlier goddammit!”

“Huh?”

**_60%_ **

“Where is he?” Placido has been taking absences in succession, both from work and from school. He hasn’t told Juanito why, yet, and a part of him feels betrayed that he’s being kept in the dark. Then again, Juanito continuously reminds himself, Placido must have his own reasons that need to be respected.

“Haven’t you heard?” Tadeo said, biting into his Skyflakes. He was a co-worker of Placido’s in the same café, also coincidentally a student in the same university. The only catch was that he was ridiculously lazy and passed his subjects only by some mysterious grace of God. He’s only Juanito’s friend by extension. “He was hospitalized.”

“Excuse me?”

“You guys have been dating for, what, seven months already, and you still didn’t know jackshit about his condition?”

“His condition?”

“Jesus man, what even—All right. Sit tight and let me explain some shit.”

.

.

.

Placido looked up blearily from the book he was reading—something about Sociology and its application in Philippine society. It was getting dark outside, bright orange mixing in with the setting deep blue in the sky.

The door to his room squeaked open. It was only a matter of time before his body would fail him again and Juanito would have to find out how weak he really is.

“Hey,” he said, closing his book and putting it on the utility shelves. Juanito had an unreadable expression on his face, but Placido knows he’s frustrated. Best to answer all of questions before it all blows out of proportion.

“It’s not that I didn’t trust you, I just couldn’t tell you because I didn’t want to look weak in front of you. I know it’s a shitty reason, but if some shit reason was strong enough for me to hide it, then… Anyway, I’m assuming Tadeo told you about this.”

Juanito nodded.

“We were classmates in our final year in high school, so he knows me the most.”

Juanito remained silent, his mind crashing over itself, trying to find the right words.

“I’ll be okay.” Placido was never really good at reassurance. But now he could at least try. “I’ll get better, then I can be able to play with you again.”

**_70%_ **

It became a new routine. On the days when Placido couldn’t come to work or class because of his illness, Juanito would visit. He would be the sole reason as to why the vase on the utility shelves is constantly filled with different flowers every week. Placido never really appreciated flowers until now.

Juanito completed his recital, but it felt empty, because he saved a seat for Placido.

“I’m sorry I couldn’t attend,” Placido said.

“The Placido that I know doesn’t really apologize. Instead he just snarks a person off.”

“Jeez. I’m trying to be serious here.”

Juanito smiled, and pressed a gentle kiss on Placido’s forehead.

“I’m gonna compose a song just for you, to make up for the recital that you missed.”

**_80%_ **

Sometimes, Juanito likes to think about how the universe can be a piece of shit. How it gives too hesitantly, and takes too easily. How it takes without warning, without a fair notice that it was going to play unfairly again.

Juanito has dreams. Placido’s in some of them. Not all of them are dreams he’d disclose to people, not even to Placido himself. Juanito chuckles at the thought. Should he really be thinking about those things and laughing at them right now?

Then again, he’s at a funeral. Placido wouldn’t condone him fooling around during a solemn rite.

Placido _definitely_ would smack Juanito if he fooled around in Placido’s _own_ funeral.

Which is what Juanito’s trying to avoid right now.

(Tears are being avoided too. But, well…)

**_90%_ **

The song that he composed for Placido was nearing completion, but lately, Juanito hasn’t found the energy to come back to it. It remained a few leaves of bond paper on his study table, buried beneath textbooks and mimeographs.

His phone started ringing, breaking the uneasy silence of his dorm room. Juanito’s eyes squinted at the caller number. Cautiously, he pressed the ‘Accept’ button.

“Hello?”

“Hello.” The caller was a woman with a honeyed voice. “Would you give me a few minutes of your time? I would like to tell you something.”

“Who’s this?”

“My identity does not matter in this. You do, though.”

“Is this some kind of scam? Are you a stalker?” Juanito took a glance at his window, making sure that no one was peering at him.

“I sense that you’re quite troubled,” the woman said, ignoring Juanito’s question. “Have you lost someone dear to you quite recently?”

Juanito froze. “How did you know?”

“I never knew,” the woman replied cheerily, obviously taking delight in his frustration. “I only asked.”

“Who are you? What do you want from me?!”

“Like I said, my identity does not matter. What matters is you, though. I would like to help you.”

“How can I be sure that you’re not trying to trick me, like kidnapping me, and selling my organs to the black market.”

“Oh my, you have quite the imagination. I’m not trying to trick you, though I’d rather not disclose my connections to the latter.”

“I’m hanging up.”

“No no no don’t!” The woman shouted, making sure her voice was loud enough for Juanito to hear.

“What do you want? You’re a sketchy person, and I’m a busy student.”

“I know a way to bring your loved one back.”

Juanito froze. He wracked his mind for any possible explanations, possible outcomes for this whole conversation. Maybe what the lady on the other line saying was true, maybe she was actually baiting him so he could go to some sketchy place to have his organs taken out.

Whatever. Juanito’s thrown all his inhibitions out the window.

“I…I’m listening.”

.

.

.

Juanito felt ridiculous, bringing only his violin with him as he eyed the imposing God of Death. His pale eyes were serious, glaring past into something beyond Juanito’s soul.

Not now, Juanito. He’s here to bargain.

“I want to take my lover back to the surface.”

Sidapa, the God of Death, was motionless for a while, until he cocked his head to the side, an uncannily human reaction. The boy beside him was looking back and forth between Juanito and his husband.

“I understand.” His voice was deep and gravelly, and it sent goose bumps across Juanito’s flesh.

A swarm of fireflies materialized behind the two gods. The formed two parallel lines, a makeshift path for a lost soul.

“I have only one condition.” Placido’s soul emerged in between the lines of fireflies. Juanito’s heart ached seeing him again, but Placido seemed troubled, as though awaiting Sidapa’s ordeal as well.

“You can only look at him once you’ve returned back to the mortal world. Any time before that, you must only lead him along the way.”

Juanito nodded without thinking. Anything, really, at this point, to get Placido back. He held out his hand, for Placido, who looked away immediately.

“Good luck,” Libulan cheered softly.

.

.

.

“I missed you, you know,” Juanito said, holding Placido’s hand tightly as they went on their silent walk back to the mortal world.

“I know,” Placido answered sadly. “I…I missed you too.”

Juanito’s neck twitched, but willed himself to not look back. “Remember that song I was planning to compose for you?”

“Yeah? What about?”

“It’s…almost done.”

Juanito couldn’t see, but he could feel Placido brighten up. “Really? That’s great! Are you gonna play it for me when you get back?”

“Why just ‘you’? Of course you’re coming with me.”

“But, I can tell you’re struggling against Sidapa’s ordeal.”

“Doesn’t mean I’ll lose. I went all this way here, from some sketchy telephone deal to playing music to appease the gods? Have a little more faith in me.”

Placido sighed.

“I…You better do a fucking good job. I don’t want to go back to that sad place again. If I see you move your head even a tiny fucking bit I’ll beat your ass to kingdom come.”

“Understood sir!”

They were treading on sharp, rocky ground now. Juanito’s hold on Placido’s hand tightened, as they walked slowly, against all odds.

“A-Ah!” Placido slipped on mossy rock, almost pulling Juanito down with him.

“Placido! Are you all right?” Juanito turned to help Placido up, before freezing in terror. Placido was looking at him, tears welling at the corner of his eyes. His mouth was trying to say something, but no sound came out. He shook his head in denial, and tried grabbing on to Juanito.

His hand simply phased through Juanito’s hands, before fading altogether, with the rest of his body.

“No, no…I’m sorry, I’m sorry, Placido no, please come back, no, I’m sorry, please, please, PLEASE!!!”

Placido’s voice was a whisper in the wind.

“We were so close too.”

**_100%_ **

Juanito was certain that his fingertips were a mess—sore, bleeding, and fleshed out from pressing down on steel strings for far too long, the usual deal. He spent a great amount of time practicing along with the pre-recorded piano accompaniment for Love’s Sorrow, the second of Kreisler’s Old Viennese Melodies, until his teacher came in and decided that enough was enough for today.

“Your playing was the same today too,” Juanito’s mentor noted. “You’re really not fond of sticking to the sheets, aren’t you?”

Juanito sighed.

Definitely not.


End file.
